Hi all,
I have nervously decided to submit the first few paragraphs of a new piece I'm working on. I would be happy to have any (gentle) criticism and general comments about the tone, characters etc.
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Yirraeth stepped over the border, the invisible line separating his old life
from his new. There were no sudden thunderclaps, no godly displeasure,
merely the hushed sound of wind rippling across grassland. Nevertheless, he shuddered, feeling the innate magic of his homeland slipping from his body like a silken cloak. Its absence left him bereft; made this new land with its stone buildings and godless people feel like a prison. His resolve
wavered - he could not go through with this. Surely his family, his tribe,
would not demand this price from him. He made a motion as if to turn back, but his pride prevented him.
His shoulders slumped. His despair was complete, as he stared back across the featureless, austere plain that made up his homeland. Looking the other way, he could see the tundra change gradually to a softer grassland, dotted with stunted trees. Yirraeth had seen trees before, when he had been one of the guardians of the yearly trading parties, but they still left him bemused and in awe - even these tiny specimens. Those traders who had ventured further into the Empire of the Mors told fabulous stories to their kinsmen about trees that five Daomen reaching hand-to-hand would be hardpressed to encircle.
In the far distance, Yirraeth's sharp eyes made out a collection of dilapidated buildings and knew it to be the northernmost outpost of the Empire. A flicker of movement caught his eye and he realised that the outpost was manned - he would have to be careful in order to pass without attracting undue attention. Despite his final destination, Yirraeth had no wish to meet humans as yet.
The Daoman took one more step. Now he was truly within the Empire. He tried reaching for his magic and came up with nothing. The land was dead. It was the first time in three years that he had been without the spark that gave him Magi abilities. He could recall vividly the horror he had felt on the day his latent talents were discovered, but the magic had become familiar. It now defined part of who he was. To have that part stripped so cruelly from him left him desolate.
Yirraeth's keen ears suddenly caught the sound of pounding hooves and a faint neigh. He turned his face to the north, from whence the sound came, and another wave of longing to return to his tribe washed over him. He stumbled northwards two steps and fell to his knees as the magic crackled up through his body from the land. The sensation was both like lightning shocking him into life, and cool water rinsing his skin of the human taint. The hooves swept into view and Yirraeth gazed weakly up at his lifemount, Jihan. The huge black stallion came to a flamboyant stop, his huge hooves planted firmly, mane and tail wreathing around his massive body like smoke. He snorted questioningly at his Daoman partner and Yirraeth rose reluctantly to his feet, looping one arm around Jihan's crested neck. The black horse gave him strength - he could feel the throb of the stallion's lifeblood beating in harmony with the pulsing magic of the land. Together they stepped across the border, Jihan's head close to Yirraeth's own as though in support of the suddenly frail Daoman. Once again the magic was leached from Yirraeth, but this time it was bearable because of the vibrant presence of his dark lifemount.
Once safely across the border, Yirraeth stopped and gratefully patted Jihan. The big horse was supposed to have remained distant from the border crossing, since his bulk on the horizon would be clearly visible to the human guards at the outpost, but the tall Daoman was now relieved that his often disobedient mount had ignored these instructions.
Yirraeth now made his last preparations for his approach to proper human civilization. He sadly stripped his tangled blonde hair of the red ribbons that adorned it - they were marks of both tribe and rank, neither of which would be required of him while dwelling amongst humans. These went into the horseskin bag that was fastened to the front of Jihan's saddle. The rangy Daoman then removed from this bag the tools of his warrior status - a dagger that he slipped into the sheath within his left boot, and two short swords which he hung at either side of his slender waist. He hesitated before handling these weapons. The Magi training he had received forbid those who carried the magic of the land from bearing arms of any sort, and Yirraeth was loath to break this first rule. He was Magi no longer, however, and needed all the protection he could gain while in hostile lands.
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Regards,
Amanda
I have nervously decided to submit the first few paragraphs of a new piece I'm working on. I would be happy to have any (gentle) criticism and general comments about the tone, characters etc.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yirraeth stepped over the border, the invisible line separating his old life
from his new. There were no sudden thunderclaps, no godly displeasure,
merely the hushed sound of wind rippling across grassland. Nevertheless, he shuddered, feeling the innate magic of his homeland slipping from his body like a silken cloak. Its absence left him bereft; made this new land with its stone buildings and godless people feel like a prison. His resolve
wavered - he could not go through with this. Surely his family, his tribe,
would not demand this price from him. He made a motion as if to turn back, but his pride prevented him.
His shoulders slumped. His despair was complete, as he stared back across the featureless, austere plain that made up his homeland. Looking the other way, he could see the tundra change gradually to a softer grassland, dotted with stunted trees. Yirraeth had seen trees before, when he had been one of the guardians of the yearly trading parties, but they still left him bemused and in awe - even these tiny specimens. Those traders who had ventured further into the Empire of the Mors told fabulous stories to their kinsmen about trees that five Daomen reaching hand-to-hand would be hardpressed to encircle.
In the far distance, Yirraeth's sharp eyes made out a collection of dilapidated buildings and knew it to be the northernmost outpost of the Empire. A flicker of movement caught his eye and he realised that the outpost was manned - he would have to be careful in order to pass without attracting undue attention. Despite his final destination, Yirraeth had no wish to meet humans as yet.
The Daoman took one more step. Now he was truly within the Empire. He tried reaching for his magic and came up with nothing. The land was dead. It was the first time in three years that he had been without the spark that gave him Magi abilities. He could recall vividly the horror he had felt on the day his latent talents were discovered, but the magic had become familiar. It now defined part of who he was. To have that part stripped so cruelly from him left him desolate.
Yirraeth's keen ears suddenly caught the sound of pounding hooves and a faint neigh. He turned his face to the north, from whence the sound came, and another wave of longing to return to his tribe washed over him. He stumbled northwards two steps and fell to his knees as the magic crackled up through his body from the land. The sensation was both like lightning shocking him into life, and cool water rinsing his skin of the human taint. The hooves swept into view and Yirraeth gazed weakly up at his lifemount, Jihan. The huge black stallion came to a flamboyant stop, his huge hooves planted firmly, mane and tail wreathing around his massive body like smoke. He snorted questioningly at his Daoman partner and Yirraeth rose reluctantly to his feet, looping one arm around Jihan's crested neck. The black horse gave him strength - he could feel the throb of the stallion's lifeblood beating in harmony with the pulsing magic of the land. Together they stepped across the border, Jihan's head close to Yirraeth's own as though in support of the suddenly frail Daoman. Once again the magic was leached from Yirraeth, but this time it was bearable because of the vibrant presence of his dark lifemount.
Once safely across the border, Yirraeth stopped and gratefully patted Jihan. The big horse was supposed to have remained distant from the border crossing, since his bulk on the horizon would be clearly visible to the human guards at the outpost, but the tall Daoman was now relieved that his often disobedient mount had ignored these instructions.
Yirraeth now made his last preparations for his approach to proper human civilization. He sadly stripped his tangled blonde hair of the red ribbons that adorned it - they were marks of both tribe and rank, neither of which would be required of him while dwelling amongst humans. These went into the horseskin bag that was fastened to the front of Jihan's saddle. The rangy Daoman then removed from this bag the tools of his warrior status - a dagger that he slipped into the sheath within his left boot, and two short swords which he hung at either side of his slender waist. He hesitated before handling these weapons. The Magi training he had received forbid those who carried the magic of the land from bearing arms of any sort, and Yirraeth was loath to break this first rule. He was Magi no longer, however, and needed all the protection he could gain while in hostile lands.
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Regards,
Amanda
I like stories about travel in strange lands.